The Corinthians Project
by Calicy
Summary: "You would know the secret of death. But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life?" (K.G., The Prophet)
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

Everything goes according to plan. A hidden connection is established at 8:45:17:01. The system is anonymously entered at 8:45:18:09 A.M. By 8:47:36:02 A.M., the mainframe has been accessed. The connection to the basement electrical system is made by 8:48:15:30 A.M.

There is hesitation, surprisingly, for a moment. Earlier, there had been worry. Not that there would be a negative outcome. That probability was low: .892%. Just that this would not end as hoped, that the outcome would be undesirable in some way and it would be unbearable given all the risk and deceit. Then, on the screen watching the others, everything comes into place so perfectly. Every person in their intended location, everything prepared and ready. It could only be fate and it drives away all weariness.

There is hesitation but only for a moment, then emboldened, it continue. The two pods, which are approximately 715 feet away, are disconnected. Not one. One would be suspicious. Two. 8:50:07:03 A.M. It is finished. It is above the law.

The camera shows them running. There is a mistake. The surgeon is not the one expected. Later, the schedule is reviewed again and the switch is noticed. It was not planned, unbeknownst to all involved.

But that is not what is important. What is important is about to occur.

They are apprehensive. This has never happened before. Yet, they know what to do. They had been trained and drilled over and over for this very moment. They do not notice everything is set up, waiting for them.

Wait.

The sound of the alarm. The sound of freedom.

.

.

"Can you describe how many fingers I'm holding up?"

The technician's voice is gentle, like a father talking to his baby. The female patient stares at the hand for a moment. She squints her eyes, mouthing words. The technician waits, patiently for a few silent moments and then lowers his hand. He reaches to turn off the recorder.

"That's alright. We haven't worked on that yet -"

"Was that a trick question?" the patient asks.

The technician almost knocks the recorder off the table, "I'm sorry?"

"Was that a trick question?" The patient asks again.

"No," the technician replies, smiling. He has never had a patient like this. Most of his new cases can barely feed themselves, let alone speak. They babble for months, before they can ever utter an understandable words. Yet, somehow, this woman is already capable of full speech. The files are correct; she must have been a master of words in her first life and she is responding to treatment accordingly.

"You were holding up four fingers and one thumb," the patient responds, before she grins and looks down, studying her hands. Her fingernails feel strangely bare, "I just like to be thorough."

"That's fine!" The technician makes a note of her response. In only three session, she demonstrated an ability to count to a thousand by any increment, recognized and gave detailed descriptions of colors, and the results of her reflex test from their last session are hanging, as an inspiration for the other technicians, on the director's door.

The patient folds her hands on her lap and watches the technician. When he finishes writing, she looks at him expectantly. The technician is happy to oblige her, "What kind of hint would you like today?"

The patient goes over the facts she knows already. She does not know where she has been or where she is now but she was born in Nairobi, Kenya. Her birthday is March 20th but she does not know what year that occurred or what year it currently is. Last week, she learned she had a younger sister and a younger brother. Her father was a professor of Applied Mathematics at Nairobi University and her mother was the Chair of that same department.

She does not know where her family is now but she remembers that when she heard of her parents' professions, she instantly recalled a vivid memory. Her family was hosting a large faculty dinner. She was eight, hiding behind her father's chair, listening to the dozens of languages the guests speak, happily recognizing bits and pieces and mentally remembering words she wants to look up later.

Her father had made a joke about his wife, "She's my boss at home and at work." The guests had laughed. The patient remembers her younger self had made note of the fact that the sound of an Andorian laughing was different from that of an Orion.

The voices in that room, particularly their jovial tones, were so familiar. Instantly, it had felt like a part of an image finally becoming recognizable in a puzzle. They had been her mentors. Those voices had guided her through early obstacles. They meant something to her beyond that childhood memory. She can barely contain the excitement in her voice. "Tell me where I went for my undergraduate degree."

The technician glances at her file, "You attended Nairobi University. Graduated at 19."

The patient contemplates the fact. Yes. This is a truth. Sometimes, to test her, the technician will lie. The patient nods and the technician grins back. However, there is something bothering the patient. Since inquisitiveness is always encouraged at the institute, she says, "Is that all?"

The technician's smile widens, "Is what all?"

Some recollections are come to her in fragmented pieces with time bringing more and more clarity until she is able to slowly form whole memories. This is not one of those times. It affronts her quickly like remembering someone's name after a brief lapse during a social interaction. Nairobi University had not been the end. She had diverged on her path. Her parents had been disappointed but she had felt a pull towards something greater which could not, would not be denied.

"I earned two undergraduate degrees. Where was the second one earned?"

"Hang on. The director will want to know about this recollection," the technician says, typing quickly into his electronic notepad. The patient watches the words forming on the screen. She cannot understand them but they are achingly familiar. The technician sends the communication and then faces the patient, "You attended Nairobi University and then Starfleet Academy."

"Starfleet," the patient says, nodding. She lets the words settle and they are warm and soothing. Images in her mind, stirred up from murky depths, become sharper, more resolved, "I remember pieces. Tall buildings, an ocean breeze, and red. Does that meant anything?"

"It does but I'll let you handle that," the technician says flipping through her files on his PADD. He comes to a section and whistles, "Got into the Academy on your first try. Pretty impressive."

This is where her memory goes dark again. The technician is waiting, expecting something. The patient searches her mind but there is nothing. She can't remember what her major was, where the school was located, or anything of substance about the academy itself. Just patches. A woman with green skin and a striking white smile. Machines with features she doesn't remember how to use. Strange ships with flawless white tiles.

"Is that good?" the patient asks, "Is it hard to get in on the first try?"

The technician nods and when he speaks again his voice is kind and paternal once more, "Yes, dear. It is." The technician begins putting his things away, "You did good today. I'm very proud. You're an inspiration."

They have a session every day but when she realizes this one is coming to an end, she begins to panic, "Can I have another fact?"

The technician pauses. At the best of times, he is overly relenting. It causes her guilt to manipulate him but not overwhelming guilt. "No. Sorry but it's procedure."

"Please," the patient says, her voice fragile. She is lost. The technician's hints are the light to put her back on the path.

Then there are the questions. Some she wants answered. Other she is too afraid to have answered. Why is she here? Where is here? How did this happen? Who is she? Who was she?

"I need to know who they are," she finally says. There are faces with blurred features that float around in her mind and stir up strong emotions. They meant something to her and the need to know more occupies her every patient leans forward, her fingers anxiously gripping the table. "Just one more. Just this once. I wouldn't tell a soul. I swear."

The technician drums his fingers. "I'll compromise," He pulls a digital card from inside his briefcase, scribbles two words on it, and gives it to her. "Read it."

Patients at the institute often develop like babies. They progress through each stage of verbal development: crying, cooing, babbling, before they ultimately form recognizable words. The institute has plans to introduce other skills like reading and writing after verbal development is complete but the patient is advanced. She already has a firm grasp on her letters although sounding out individual words is still a struggle for her. When he can, the technician likes to passively encourage her skills.

The patient grabs the digital card the moment the technician is finished writing, her actions leaving an errant stroke from where his pen marked as she pulls the card towards her. Her eyes trace the curves and lines of the letters but recognition escapes her. Her vision grows blurry, her traitorous eyes showing her disappointment very much against her will, "This isn't fair. Why are you keep doing this to me? You know I only speak Swahili. I can only read in Swahili. What is this?"

"Can you not read it?" the technician asks.

She looks back at the digital card again. She prays for what at that point is next to impossible. She is lacking. In the back of her mind, she knows she has pushed herself that day and she should be proud of that. She isn't though. She doesn't even know what it is but she has lost something and every fiber of her being needs to find it again.

She brings the card close to her face as if this is all she need do and some magic will tell her what she is looking at. Her jaw become tight with frustration. "No. I can't read this."

She hands it back to him but he holds up a hand to stop her, "You keep it. You can read it. Trust me."

His tone of voice is familiar. He wants her to think, to elaborate.

Later, she does, often and with great frustration at the task, especially that night when there is no other distraction.

She is so consumed, she skips breakfast the next day. She does not join the other patients for a walk around the compound as she had taken the habit of doing, nor does she go to the cafeteria for lunch. She stares. As if it is the only thing in the world, she stares.

She knows the letters, recognizes them but strung together, they mean nothing to her. The technician gave her gibberish.

At one point, frustrated, she buries the thing under her mattress. Then she digs it out and holds it up to the light. Perhaps it is a trick. No. It's not a trick. In the garbage it goes. She paces for a few moments and then upends the trashcan to find the card. She traces the words before her with her finger, hoping that the act of writing them will bring something back. Nothing. She puts the disk in a drawer in her desk and slammed it away. Second later, she is carrying the disk in her pocket as she stomps down the hall.

The patient passes the portrait of the African woman, the one she find both intimidating and nostalgic, on her way. This was intentional. There are three portraits in the hall but she only has eyes for the one in the middle. The patient glances at the portrait, not long enough for her gaze to seem meaningful to others, but long enough to takes in the woman's high cheek bones, elegantly arched eyebrows, and lush mouth which bring a myriad of emotions to the patient, before then the patient averts her eyes and continues on her way.

The patient goes to the library first. It's a massive room with row after row of real, paged books. The very idea of it brings chills to the patient's spine. Her old self liked the idea of holding and feeling literature too. She is not very good at reading, even in Swahili, yet but it is coming back to her quickly with practice and it's much preferable to her thoughts.

On the eastern wall of the library, there is a set of french doors which lead out to the yard. The patient stops for a moment to admire her surroundings. An acre of thick green grass lies before her and beyond that a lake so wide she cannot see the opposite bank. The sky is bright blue and crystal clear. The circumference around the institute is trimmed with colorful, blooming roses. Whoever built this place meant for it to be beautiful for its inhabitants. The patient sits down on a marble bench under a tree and begins reading.

The patient likes reading. It is fascinating to think that no letter alone, save for a few, can mean anything on their own. Each word is the sum of its parts. She mentally reviews the phonetic sound of each letters in the alphabet. She thinks it would be more appropriate for her to be annoyed that some letters have multiple phonetic sounds but she isn't. Far from it. She appreciates that fact as well. Letters have many faces, just like people.

There had been a few dozen children's books in the library which the patient had ignored but the book she choose is well illustrated and it has very few complex words. She covers the picture while she reads and then uncovers the image to affirm what she thinks she has read.

The first words are rusty and she reads them out loud to see if they make more sense when spoken. They do indeed. There is a small village being harassed by an ogre. She continues reading aloud. The ogre is raiding and eating all the village's cattle and food and destroying their homes. The patient lifts her hand. The image confirms this. There is a maiden who gathers food for the village whom the ogre falls in love with. The maiden learns where the ogre's home is. The patient flips through the books slowly. When she once struggled, she now enjoys the book. The ogre's raids begin to overtake the village's resources. The maiden brings the warriors of her village to the ogre's hiding spot. The ogre is defeated and becomes a mountain.

As she closes the book, she realizes she has heard this story before.

This brings a patch of another recollection. A little girl's laugh. The patient thinks perhaps it was her younger sister's but assigning that identity to that laugh does not seem right. The patient revels in the memory of the laugh. At one point, in her past life, this fact had been true: if she had been allowed to do nothing else but illicit that that laugh for rest of her life, she would have been content.

It brings her no calm to recall though. Instead she feels empty. That is a commonplace in her current situation. She wonders if this fact will ever change.

"Look who it is!"

The patient looks up. A perky nurse is pushing a dark haired man with a familiar glare towards her. The man is making obvious gestures at the nurse but his caregiver's eyes look peacefully past her charge's attempts at communications.

"Here we go," Nurse Aziza says. She pushes Bo's wheelchair through the last bit of gravel, past a patch of grass and over to the bench where the patient is sitting. Nurse Aziza places a hat onto Bo's head, rubs white patch of sunscreen on his cheek so the lotion absorbs into his skin, "Here's your friend."

"No," Bo says. He enunciates the word to emphasize his point. He point back to the building where his room is, "No!"

"Alright," Nurse Aziza replies. She turns to the patient, asking in rapid fire Swahili, "Can he stay with you for a bit again? I need to bathe two patients."

The patient nods.

Nurse Aziza pats Bo on the head and tells him, her words much slower, "I'll be back in an hour."

When Nurse Aziza is gone, Bo looks at the patient. She smiles at him. His cheekbones rise slightly as he makes a slightly pleasant face back at her and then immediately he begins pulling on the brakes of his wheelchair. The patient looks at the belt on Bo's waist holding him up in his chair. He is too weak to turn off the brakes and with a sigh he looks at her. The patient shrugs at him.

Bo reaches out and turns up the cover of the book in her arms.

"It's the story of Ngong Hills outside Nairobi," the patient tells him, "Enkong'u emuny."

Bo stares at her mouth. He does not speak fluent Swahili, unlike most of the staff and some of the other patients. He mutters under his breath, "Nejong."

The patient holds up a picture in the book for him to see. She points to the lush green hills, "Ngong."

"Nejong," Bo replies. He looks at her expectantly.

"No, that's good," the patient says, nodding so he knows she is giving her approval. She concentrate for a moment before saying, in the language Bo understands, "How are you?"

"Good," Bo says nodding. Then, after several seconds of silence, he adds, "Mimi ni vizuri."

The patient smiles genuinely at him and she notices the side of Bo's mouth twitch in response.

"How are your sessions going?" the patient asks in his language. She wishes there were something else they could talk about but there is little else the patients do at the institute.

Bo reaches into his pocket and pulls out a digital card. The patient sees a detailed anatomical illustration on its surface. She shakes her head. Bo must have been a genius in his previous life. She has recalled much more than he has in sessions but what he has, she envies. He knows his name and he knows he was a scientist. She can only remembers bits of her childhood and has the vaguest of feelings about her adolescence.

"Lungs," Bo says, pointing to his illustration, "Pafu."

"Beautiful," the patient says. She pulls out her own card. Bo takes it from her. The patient waves a hand over the words, "Confusing. Nonsense. Nothing."

"Star. Freedom," Bo reads. He turns and nods to her, "Nonsense."

"What?" the patient says, "You can read that?"

Bo is staring at her so she points to the first word, "Star?" Her hand moves to the second word, "Freedom? This is your language?"

Bo nods again, "Star. Freedom."

"Star. Freedom," the patient repeats. This recollection hits her quickly, "Nyota Uhura. That's my name." She grabbed her friend's forearm, both as a gesture of affection and to steady herself at the revelation, "He gave me my name."


	2. Chapter 2

Amandla is experiencing xerostomia, no doubt a side effect of the sedative she administered to herself. Water would bring some relief but she currently has no desire for any sustenance.

Without thinking, she begins gnawing on the cuticle of her left thumb. Several seconds pass before she even becomes aware that she is chewing her nail. When she does notice she is indulging in the old vice, she quickly pulls her hand away and sits on the digit. Her recording program is taking an agonizing amount of time to open. She drums her fingers on the desk, the false fear rising through her chest again. A chill seems to pass through the room. She glances behind her. The laboratory is climate controlled, as would be expected for their work, but the autopsy room is kept at a much lower temperature. Her spine is humming with nervousness but the door is closed and she chastises herself for being so ridiculous.

Even at the beginning of her career, she had not been afraid of corpses. At most, she was grossly fascinated and slightly leery. Now, she is still not afraid. Merely apprehensive. The room and its freezer cannot be the source of the chill but it does bring up recent unpleasant memories. The sight of the door fills her mind with images of flatlining monitors and the same vision is burned into her eyelids, flashing each time she blinks. She allows herself to chew her nails again.

It is well past midnight and the laboratory is empty. She allows herself to lean on her elbows. She has not eaten in approximately 19.4 hours. A large pack of chewy sour candy and half a can of an energy drink had been her only snack since she had arrived at work. She requires of meal of at least 2435.71 calories to compensate for her lack of nutritious food for the past 28.253 hours.

She is alone, mercifully. No one around to tell her this kind of behavior is unhealthy, possibly even destructive or to remind her that what she is doing and what she so desperately hoped for or now wants is, in one incredibly generous word, absurd. Not that she would admit to what it is she wants. She is well aware that if such circumstances arose, she would deny her own thoughts with her dying breath.

Amandla rubs her eyes. Here she is, trapped in the lab, hours past midnight, consumed with making notes and conducting tests. The minute this opportunity had arisen, she had tripped over herself to take it. Now, she is pondering the merit of that decision and others. Of course, she knows why she is here still, arguing with herself and reanalyzing every detail. She know why nothing can drag her away from the lab. She feels guilt, even a little self-loathing at her selfishness, but she is still here. It seems to be happening a lot these days.

The program is finally opened. She switches on the recording function, clearing her throat as she pulls the microphone close, even though she know it will not steady the nervous twinge in her voice.

"This is the autopsy report for Lieutenant Jerome Wyatt Hawkins," Her mind wanders as she describes minor external physical details: the lieutenant's height and weight, the color of his eyes and hair. She had not taken any notes. She almost never does, unless someone else will need to see such findings.

Her eyes are burning and she closes them for a moment. In that split second, she sees the Lieutenant.

"What happened?" The Lieutenant had asked when he'd been able to, "You were a kid. What happened on the mission?"

Amandla continues, barely hearing what she is saying. She is not a pathologist or a medical examiner but she can do tasks requiring exact processes with almost no thought involved. An autopsy and recording her findings on said autopsy are such tasks. Despite not having done one in years, it came back to her easily.

She can hear the words spewing from her mouth, "preliminary blood examination showed no signs of drug use," "I conclude based on superficial analysis that there is no damage to the internal organs of the thoracic cavity however I will confirm this with testing," "digestive system and accessory organs are healthy and intact." They are easy words to say. She had expected not to see anything amiss is those areas.

By the time she comes to the part of her report where it is necessary to describe her examination of the brain, her thumb is bleeding and her other arms is wrapped tightly around her waist.

"Cause of Death: Major Hemorrhagic Cerebrovascular Insult," Amandla concludes. She can't shake the feeling that someone else is speaking instead her. She submits the report. Then she waits. Fifteen minutes and fifty four seconds later, she gets the message she was expecting.

'Can I call?' the text reads. It's Uncle Jim. Even the mere sentence makes her a little less nervous. She responds with an affirmative quickly. Her communicator rings a few seconds later and she answers without checking the number.

"Hello," Amandla says. Her voice sounds weak even to her own ears.

"Hi," her husband Taka says when he hears her pick up. His voice is still tense; he hasn't forgotten the argument they had had that morning. She can barely remember what the whole thing was about. Dishes or something equally as unimportant. What she can recall is that she wanted something to be angry about and he gave it to her, albeit unintentionally, as always,"Your daughter can't sleep."

She is silent, confused that Taka is calling and not Uncle Jim and too exhausted to process the mistake.

"Look, I know you're busy with everything," Taka says. His voice has changed. He is forgiving her already. He always forgives easily, even if she doesn't necessarily apologize. He couldn't have lasted through nearly two decades with her if he didn't have such a shocking degree of patience.

Amandla hears the crackling of their child coughing on his side of the line, "You need the nebulizer. The machine is under her bed. The medicine is in my cabinet in the bathroom."

She waits while he goes searching for their daughter's asthma treatment. She hears a cabinet slam shut and then few minutes later, the hum of the breathing machine.

"She's fine. She's already falling asleep again," Taka tells her.

Amandla murmurs to indicate her comprehension.

"When are you coming home?" he asks, adding quickly, "What time?"

Amandla freezes, staring at her autopsy report in front of her.

You look just like her.

That's what Lieutenant Hawkins had said before, his lips quivering. No one had ever said that to her. Was it true? She had almost never seen pictures. Commander Spock and her grandparents had tucked them away and Uncle Jim only had few, most of which only showed glimpses of her mother's face. Her mother never seemed to stand still, even when being photographed. Kinetic. That was something Amandla remembers about the woman.

Amandla had tucked a blanket around the Lieutenant for warmth and he had clutched her hand like it was a life preserver. She hadn't pulled away, despite the inconvenience. His muscle tone had needed examining anyway.

You look just like her.

Those were his last words, spoken mere hours ago. He was gone along with so many answers to unasked questions. Amandla feels her mind wandering, defensively away from the situation. She doesn't want to bring all this home with her.

"Yeah," Taka says, despite the fact that she hasn't said anything.

The communicator is blinking. Uncle Jim is calling. "I need to go. I'll call later."

"Yeah," Taka says, his voice empty. He hangs up before she does.

Amandla inhales deeply to center herself before she projects Uncle Jim's call onto her screen so they can speak face to face, "Hello."

"There's my little girl," Uncle Jim says, the sight of his smiling face easing her rattled mind, "How are you?"

Amandla lowers her chin, her gaze locked on his. Uncle Jim shudders.

"Channeling your dad for a second there," He mutters. Then, because he knows her look was simply a reminder that she doesn't like idle talk, he adds, "So, he didn't make it?"

Amandla holds her breath, in the vain hope it will ease the pounding in her chest. She shakes her head.

"How did it happen?" Uncle Jim asks, his hands busily working on the PADD in front of him, "What is a Major Hemorrhagic-"

"Major Hemorrhagic Cerebrovascular Insult," Amandla says for him, "Colloquially known as a stroke. The temporary corrective surgery I performed to treat the effects of the virus was successful but approximately 3.2 days later, while he was in the care of my colleague as I gave a lecture, he began displaying signs of distress. Upon my return, I concluded three vessels in his cerebral arterial circle had weakened as a result of his disease and burst. The volume of blood compressed in his skull until he was unable to survive. My attempts to prevent his demise were a failure."

There had to have been signs of hypovolemic shock. The thought is intrusive and unwanted but she cannot push it away. It would have been easily detected with a simple vitals check. The drop in blood pressure along with the onset of tachycardia would have been unmistakable. If she had been there, she would have seen it and known exactly what to it. If . . .

They had tried to save him, of course, but they weren't her. He had been her responsibility.

Uncle Jim meets her gaze again. His eyes, which she usually interprets as being youthful and mischievous, are sad. He pulls off the reading glasses, which age have made a necessity, and rubs his sinuses before saying, "He was a good man. I'll pay for his arrangements."

She nods. She has known Uncle Jim all her life, long enough to know when he wishes to speak and be listened to, "Their actions that day indicate a high degree of selflessness and bravery."

"It's true. He was a brave man. A little dense but you couldn't hold it against him for too long. He was too nice," Uncle Jim says, smiling at a memory. Amandla nearly bites through her tongue before he adds, "They were all good people, especially her."

"They were," Amandla says. It had been twenty two years and she had only been six at the time but she could easily recall that.

Uncle Jim cradles his chin in his hand, glancing up when she speaks. He does not need much persuasion, "Well, she was one of the best people I ever knew," Uncle Jim says. He knows. He is staring at a space over the screen, his thoughts very distant from her. H stille talks about her often, especially when Amandla is near, and did even more before. Commander Spock found this irritating but Amandla never stopped him. He has told her thousands of stories about her mother and he has never told the same story twice.

"Tell me," Amandla says.

"We were at a benefit at the Xindi Embassy and I was just blowing it. All those gestures and niceties ambassadors need, I couldn't handle. I shouldn't have been there. I was green as grass. They were not impressed. And your mother was off trying to make nice but all of the sudden I heard her - she was clear across the room remember - hollering, 'That's my Captain. He is worthy only of the utmost respect. Please refrain from belittling him in my presence.'" Uncle Jim smiles briefly. His voice is a whisper when he repeats, "That's my Captain."

Amandla is silent. There is something here, something she cannot possibly understand. She had never been a captain and she has never had a crew like his.

"They made her apologize and smooth things over," Uncle Jim says, chuckling, "but later when we were alone, burying our troubles in some Andorian ale and ice cream, she told me, she hadn't meant it, only did it because she had to. Then she went with me to all the mandated cultural trainings Starfleet laid on me. I had to earn it but when I did, she always had my back."

Uncle Jim looks at her, expectantly. She has absolutely nothing to say.

"She would be so proud," Uncle Jim says, "Of everything you do and everything you're trying to do."

Amandla feels her cheeks warming. She knows about his monument. Pasha and Hikaru had told her. Uncle Jim put up holographs and videos of her where everyone can see them, on the back of his chair. Everything from baby pictures to the recent article from Canada which dubbed her, "The Steadiest Hands on Earth".

She disagrees with his assessment, which she can only assume is that he believes her to be selfless and humanitarian, but she holds her tongue. In many ways, she is almost identical to him: an eager explorer in a final frontier.

Or perhaps what Imani said once is true and it is guilt which drives her, from what happened and what came after. For a period of time, she had forgotten her mother. It gave her pain so she had allowed her memories to become a black space because that was easier than the alternative. She had wondered why Uncle Jim resisted going to medbay even when he was gravely ill. She had thought it odd that Commander Spock kept dozens of old boxes in his room which she was not allowed to touch and spent his spare time listening to old communication tapes. She hadn't thought about it too much though.

"Nothing would make me sadder than you forgetting her. I promised myself you would at least have memories of her," Uncle Jim says, interrupting her thoughts.

Amandla glances at the clock. It is early morning. Here she is still, obsessed. No. It is not an obsession. An obsession implies selfishness and a general unwillingness to relent. This is a need.

"Do you," Uncle Jim pauses, "Do you remember anything? Things I haven't told you? Things you experienced first hand?"

She looks away from the clock but not towards him.

"You were young," Uncle Jim says, "It's alright if you don't."

This is true. She had been young, small enough for Uncle Jim to carry. The captain, as Commander Spock often complained, was always quick to indulge her. She remembers the day vividly. Mama had been away and Commander Spock, with his inability to understand her tantrums, had grown weary of her presence. Uncle Jim had taken it upon himself to placate her. Mostly this had involved bubble blowing and massive quantities of nutritionally barren food. After a lunch of cookies and ice cream, he had carried her to a high deck so they could watch the landing party return.

"Do you see them, Amandla?" Uncle Jim had asked, pointing to a dozen pods heading towards the landing dock to their right.

Tired and irate due to their lunch and her need for a nap, she had been sucking her thumb. Upon seeing the shuttle with a bright red "8" on it, she had pulled her hand away from her mouth to smile. Commander Spock would have probably disapprove of the smile, of the thumb sucking, of the lunch, and the bubbles. But Uncle Jim had smiled widely back.

She does remember. Uncle Jim is watching and waiting for some recollection from her but, perhaps she is too tired, or too angry still, or perhaps Uncle Jim was always right and she is exactly like Commander Spock: stubborn and emotionally constipated. In any event, Uncle Jim receives no response to his query. She does not insist on forcing herself to respond to other's statement's on her state of being.

"You want to talk to your dad?" Uncle Jim ask and then before she can respond, he stands and walks away from the screen. Out of her view, she hears Uncle Jim saying, somewhere on the bridge out of view of the communicator, "No, put down the damn tricorder and talk to your kid." Then, she is face to face with Commander Spock.

"Commander," Amandla says.

"Hello Amandla," Commander Spock says.

"How are you?" she asks, glancing at her program. Her test is still running but she has enlarged a sample of cells she wants to examine. She analyzes the cells, most of which are dead, idly waiting for his response.

"I am well," Commander Spock replies, "And yourself?"

"I am well, as well," Amandla says.

Silence follows. There is always silence between them. Decades ago, she might have wracked her brain for a conversation starter. Now, she simply lets the silence be. She hears Uncle Jim whispering something to Commander Spock.

"How are you feeling about the Lieutenant's death?" Commander Spock asks suddenly.

She looks at him, not attempting to hid the scorn in her eyes. It is too late and she is too tired to act otherwise, "I am upset. I often find myself upset when my patient dies, despite my best efforts."

"There are circumstances which we cannot control, regardless of our desire for events to be otherwise," Commander Spock says, "It is not a statement on your skills."

"I should not have left him," she says, ferociously. Her mind is reliving the entire situation again, against her opposition, "He was still in recovery. I should have suspected something would happen, even when he seemed fine, I should have run more tests, or anything. At a certain point, my skills should be able to accommodate any circumstance. I was lazy."

"Ko-fu," Commander Spock says, "Perhaps you should consider taking some time to rest. You appear fatigued."

"I am just fine," Amandla says. It is showing. She always knows when it is showing. She usually is able to hid it but sometimes she cannot, "I am happy. Just as you wanted when you left me with Bibi and Babu."

Commander Spock is a good man. He must be. Uncle Jim thinks the universe of him and everyone who realizes she is his child, make comments which support this theory. She knows this, on a hypothetical level. She should acknowledge it, especially in their interaction

Her grandparents had not thought so, for their own reasons. Perhaps it was all compounded by the fact that they hated space for taking their oldest daughter and hated him by association. She could never know; there were too many factors to consider and she never had the strength to consider them all. All she knows is their words had taken their toll on her.

The fissure had come a few months after she was first begun living in Kenya. Emboldened by their recent court victory, they had held a funeral for her mother. Commander Spock never forgave them. She remembers the singing, the drumming, the crying. She also remembers that when the mourning period was over, she had felt some relief, some closure. From that point on, she had always aligned herself with whatever her grandparents wished, even when it went against what Commander Spock desired.

"I was never my intent for you to be happy," She hears him says. She is not looking at him, "I wished for you to be content."

That is when she sees it. A single dying nerve cell. It's chromosomes retreating to separate sides of its body. She wonders if it is possibly a cells from another organ system, somehow mixed in but when she scans it, the wild impossibility is confirmed. A list of results appears on her computer. She clicks around. She glances at an enlarged image of the cells she imputed in the machine and feels her face go slack. A single, apt word falls from her lips, "Fuck."

"Amandla?" Commander Spock says.

"I have to go," she says, turning off the communicator before he can respond. She busies herself with making notes, recording her findings, and taking detailed visuals. The cell only lives for 97.4 more minutes but in that time, it is the center of her world. She does not think of Commander Spock.

.

.

.

Her colleague's room is stifling as usual but today it is especially suffocating. T'Tal is in the corner, bent over a metal structure, welding. She does not appear to notice Amandla has entered the room and Amandla has some reservations about interrupting her while T'Tal has an open flame in hand.

Amandla busies herself, safely away from her friend. From the refrigeration unit, she takes one of the two large containers of water and electrolyte additive that T'Tal is required to drink each day and pours two cups of the liquid. Then she finds the container of specialized meal substitute powder and prepares a dosage for her friend. By the time Amandla has finished preparing T'Tal's breakfast, the Vulcan female has turned off her welding tool and turned, noticing her visitor for the first time.

Neither woman verbally acknowledges the other. Instead, Amandla pokes around the office, examining T'Tal's new inventions, while the other female takes off her protective gear and puts away her equipment.

T'Tal had removed their uniformed scrubs to complete her project and for the upteenth time, Amanlda is astounded at how little adipose tissue her friend has. T'Tal is skeletal, the outline of her muscles and bones visible through her skin. Almost without thought, Amandla tips another half portion of meal substitute powder into T'Tal beverage.

"Do you need any intravenous?" Amandla asks.

"I am not experiencing any noticeable symptoms currently," T'Tal replies, pulling on the dark violet scrubs each member of their laboratory is required to wear. Amandla holds the nutritional monitor up and T'Tal obediently tips up onto her toes so that Amandla can analyze T'Tal's lymph and blood for nutritional deficiencies. T'Tal is diligent in her regimes and as usual there are none.

T'Tal drinks her breakfast, watching Amandla over the brim of her cup. When she is finished, Amandla hands her proposal over. T'Tal reads it, sipping occasionally from her cup.

T'Tal reviews the specifications twice. Amandla waits patiently at first but she soon finds herself drumming her fingers irately on the desk in front of them. T'Tal finally puts the PADD down in front her, pausing to take one more drink of water.

"Well?" Amandla asks, when T'Tal is silent for too long, "Is it feasible?"

"What objective do you hope these alterations will accomplish?" T'Tal asks.

Amandla hesitates, "It's a side project."

"It would be unethical me to adjusted our radiation machine to deliver fractional dosage of 15 grays, particularly given your need for cellular level precision, without further information. At this dosage, permanent damage is almost an inevitability," T'Tal retorted, "If done without thorough analysis, we might both face appropriate sanctions. This lab and you, specifically, have already been given an impressive degree of scientific independence that should not abused."

"So it is feasible," Amandla says. A wave of relief washes over her. For a brief moment, it seemed like she was asking T'Tal to alter the turn of the planet.

"Yes," T'Tal says, "However, I will give no further assistance without discussion. You cannot afford to be sanctioned again."

"I see," Amandla says. Her thoughts debate furiously amongst each other.

"You are not capable of making the alterations yourself," T'Tal adds.

"I wouldn't dream of it," Amandla says, avoiding her friend's eyes. T'Tal had known Amandla since the beginning of their tertiary education, long enough to know her thought process.

"What objective do you hope these alterations will accomplish?" T'Tal repeats.

"I have an idea for a therapy. It will sound . . . insane at first but please listen to my proposal in its entirety," Amandla says. She pulls up several image on her PADD to show T'Tal, "I was performing an autopsy last night when I discovered a brain cell which had been infected by a virus and became mitotically active. I also found other brain cells in the sample which also looked like they had begun replicating before their demise as well."

T'Tal's mouth tightens slightly. Regeneration of most somatic cells is possible, as they are both aware, but only in cells which naturally replicated spontaneously. No scientist has ever been able to coax mature neural tissue to regenerate.

"Exactly," Amandla says, knowing what T'Tal is thinking, "If we could locate the mechanism by which this virus is doing this, the possibilities would be groundbreaking. We could treat traumatic brain injuries, restore senses, and improve the outcome of so many diseases simply by influencing the damage tissue to replicate and controlling its growth."

However, it appears Amandla did not predict all of her friend's thoughts. T'Tal pauses, "You intend to use this finding to regenerate neural tissue?"

"Of course," Amandla says. She mentally reviews what she had said. Her thoughts had grown so radical in the dawn hours, she had been forced to take a short nap in her office. She hopes she did not indicate said eccentricities to T'Tal.

"You were hesitant to tell me this," T'Tal says, "Please explain."

"I just didn't want to overstate what I had," Amandla assures her. T'Tal is watching her, unwavering. Amandla forces her face is slacken but it is too late. T'Tal has seen her tell.

"There is a significant difference between replicating damaged neural tissue and replacing dead neural tissue," T'Tal says.

"And what difference is that?" Amandla asks.

"I do not understand the distinction humans draw between brain death and other forms of life cessation. In my opinion, they are equivalent as both render an organism inert. A difference in treatment, as a result of that faulty distinction, is unethical."

"I disagree," Amandla says, "The brain is an organ. If a simple alteration can allow the organism to survive, such measures should be taken, in all events where possible. It is no different than a transplant or a round of antibiotics. It would be unethical to hold back treatment because of a disagreement over what constitutes death."

"The brain is not a mere organ. It is the cradle of conscious thought and therefore a force of life. Sentient beings are transient; the universe is immutable. That is a universal certainty," T'Tal says, "There are no instances where it is necessary for this fact to be disrupted."

"No," Amandla says, as a response to everything her friend is saying, "In the end, everyone just wants a little more time. I'm not aiming for immortality. Just a second chance for those whom I can provide it to, which seems perfectly fair. What is your issue with giving them that?"

"Death is as indispensable as birth. It is not our place to toil in such arenas."

"Nothing is set in stone," Amandla says, "Nor should it be, if we have the tools to make it right."

"You are too emotionally involved in this to understand what is right or wrong," T'Tal says. Amandla pauses. For a moment, she thought T'Tal was merely being exhaustive but her comment proves what Amandla dreaded: she knows Amandla's true motivation.

"And you are a fool if you think such a binary exists," Amandla says, standing too fast. Realizing she is being rude, she adds, "I have to go prepare a lecture."

"I will submit a report to the ethical board," T'Tal says, "Thus, allowing a more neutral party to provide their input."

"Alright," Amandla says, walking out of her colleague's office, "That's fine."

T'Tal's office is a soft sanctuary. Outside of it, the lab is full and loud. Amandla dodges a pair of nurses rushing to prep for surgery, one of her therapists working with a patient, and three student interns looking over results from a patient's test, before she reaches her station. Another intern is hovering over the microscope she was using.

Her teeth clench down on her tongue to hold back her annoyance. She leans over the young woman's shoulder, "See anything interesting?"

"Doctor! I'm so sorry!" the girl jumps back, almost knocking the equipment off the table, "I heard the rumor and I just wanted to see. Is this the omnicell?

"Omnicell? Is that what we're calling it now?" Amandla says. Her annoyance is diminishing. She was once too curious for her own good as well.

"The senior assistants are, ma'am," the student replies, "I guess they think it's catchy."

"Catchy," Amandla huffs. She presses her eyes to the scope before her. As with the other samples before, the cells are dead. The combination of viral biochemicals she noticed in the original sample have done nothing to the tested single cells, except kill them. She pulls the slide and tosses it on the table. It cracks but she currently can't bring herself to care. Perhaps the dosages was wrong. She can review the exact amino acid sequence too. Also, she should check the machinery.

"It's exciting," the student, who is still behind her, says, "It's exciting right? So many possibilities that just thinking about it makes me . . . excited. Maybe one day I'll get to tell my grandkids I was part of this. We're gonna change so many lives."

"Well, I only care about one life currently," Amandla says. She meant for this to be whispered but it was not softly said. The intern watches her nervously for a second before scampering off.

Amandla pokes around at her station for a few more minutes but not with any enthusiasm. Past the bodies around her, she sees T'Tal watching her. She quickly turns off the microscope and makes a retreat to her office.

.

.

.

"How is your new prescription working?" Imani asks. She is seated behind Amandla, out of sight, which is unsettling. However, this is one of the few rules Imani insists on. She's an unspecified therapist and doesn't adhere to any distinct school of thought, choosing instead to pick and choose what she wants to practice based on evidence and personal insight. And this seating arrangement is one of her most supported ideas. It enable her patients to forget Imani's there.

"I took one last night," Amandla says, "I don't think it worked."

"I'll find something else for you," Imani promises, "I just got a new journal. One of the articles is on psychoactive drugs for alien hybrids. It sounds promising. On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your anxiety level during your episode last night?"

"Eight," Amandla says, "The sedative helped a little but it was pretty consistently high. It came on fast."

"What were you doing when it happened?"

"I was talking to Uncle Jim and Commander Spock," Amandla says. This is not a lie, she assures herself. It's a simple omission of the fact that she had taken the sedative 72 minutes earlier than the aforementioned event. Amandla waits, listening for Imani's response. Sometimes her friend can recognize her minor intentional memory slips but now, she is writing, seemingly oblivious to the lapse in truth.

"What did you talk about with your father?" Imani asks. She doesn't even ask about Uncle Jim. She knows he is one of the few people Amandla loves unconditionally and is endlessly loyal to.

"Nothing," Amandla says, "I didn't really want to talk to him. Uncle Jim made me."

"Why is that?"

"We have no relationship," Amandla says. Imani knows about the custody battle her grandparents instigated when she was a child visiting them for a summer. She also knows Commander Spock had agreed to allows his only child to live with them year round, save for a week in the summer and a week in the winter, with no resistance on his part, under the guise that it was the most copacetic and ideal situation for all parties, "I don't understand him."

Amandla's thoughts are racing again. Imani is not writing. The other woman has a sense for emotional distress in others and an ability to gain trust that Amandla envies. She also can make Amandla say things she thought she would never tell a soul. It is unfortunate.

"My mother understood him," Amandla says to fill the silence. Commander Spock's eyes had always been calm when her mother had been near. That's what Amandla remembers was once a fact.

"Babyface told me about your findings," Imani says, "Do you want to talk about that?"

Babyface is T'Tal. Amandla, Imani, and T'Tal had attended the same direct undergraduate to M.D./PhD. program. T'Tal, with her Vulcan heritage and health issues, had been tiny and prepubescent, hence the moniker. Amandla, who had been a precocious fourteen year old who had yet to go through the growth spurt which would added thirteen inches to her height in the span of eighteen months, was "Little Bit". Imani had been an older student who had taken them both under her wing. Sometimes when Amandla was drunk and all her inhibitions were gone, she called Imani, "Mama".

Was this intentional, Amandla wonders, to remind her of the silly nickname she occasionally had for Imani?

"I think it would mean a something to a lot of people," Amandla says.

"How do you view your work?" Imani asks, "What objective do you hope to achieve?"

"I am uncertain. I have seen patients endures unfortunate accidents," Amandla says, "I have often found such incidents unfair."

Then, Imani commits a mortal sin,"What happened to you was unfair, was it not?"

"What are you referring to?"

"Whom am I referring to, Amandla." It is not a question. It is barely an inquiry. It is a statement mean to draw out something. Amandla's diversion did not work.

They don't talk about her mother in session. Amandla has been in and out of therapy with Imani for years. At this junction, they have an unspoken agreement to prevent the faux pas which ended their therapy each time in the past: Imani cannot push on a very particular subject. Yet, for all her emotional intelligence, Imani often makes this misstep and the result is always the same.

Amandla feels shame, a common emotion for therapy sessions. It had been all over her grandparents house, the ancestral home where every child in her family had at one time or another spent their summer, the safe haven where aunts and uncles who had fallen on hard times landed. She had seen it in the dozens of empty bottles she had found in the attic, a space she was expressly forbidden from treading, where the monsters she had expected were nowhere to be found. She had seen it in the books left behind on the cabinets, claiming to silence demon forever and bring clarity where there had once been chaos. She had seen it in the pictures, some posed and others spontaneously taken without their participant's knowledges, where so many smiled but so few were able to bring the expression of joy to their eyes.

She had told her grandparents once. Her grandmother understood, to a point, but she felt that life was a series of miseries to navigate and hadn't understood what course of action to take. Her grandfather, who never experienced it, had told her the story of her ancestors at the Kakuma Refugee Camp. Then he added, "There is no one on earth you should trust more to care for you than you trust in yourself to care for you." It was a perfect summary of the problem.

It wasn't looked down upon, as it once had been, but nothing could diminish the effects of her hubris.

Amandla turns, her face unable to hold back a glare. Imani is unfazed, "I don't think this the moment you are looking for."

Perhaps she had romanticized her mother. She had been so young and her mother had seemed so heroic. When she was young, when every problems seemed unsurmountable and she was certain everyone was watching her fail, she wondered if it was excessivated by the absence. In the end, she knows one thing, and it is so simple and honest she has no choice but to begrudgingly accept it: before, when she had her mother, there had been silence and after mother was gone, the thoughts came, the ones who told her destructive things.

It did not require further insight. At least, not in Amandla's opinion.

Someone knocks on the door. Amandla quickly moves to stand behind Imani before she calls out, "Yes, come in."

It's Hasna, Amandla's nurse and second assistant. Hasna nods at Imani and says, "Doctor Uhura, Chairman Meloni is here for his assessment."

Amandla's eyes glance at Imani who is watching her intently. She gives her friend a shrug and goes to collect her things, "We are done."

"I have no appointments during lunch tomorrow," Imani says, standing, "Come and eat with me if you want."

"I can't. I'm sorry," Amandla says. They've gone too far again. Imani emails her after her session with the Chairman, asking when she wants to meet for the "article" they're writing together but Amandla never responds. She is, once again, finished.

Amandla returns to her cell and stays there for the rest of the day.

.

.

.

"Hi," Amandla says. Her husband's gaze through the screen of the communicator is piercing without even being severe and she feels the urge to bite her nails. "I'm sorry I didn't call back quickly. I got caught up in all my appointments."

Taka does not respond. He nods, eyes still fixed on hers.

Amandla contemplates lying or completely omitting the event of the previous night. In his face, they seems like weak excuses, unworthy of articulation or sympathy. Amandla is tired though and relents, "My patient died."

He is quiet and for a moment, Amandla is certain he simply doesn't care. Why would the living want to burden themselves with matters of the dead or dying? She is absent and that is what matters. Their daughter asks after her and he has nothing of substance to tell her. Maybe he is questioning everything about their lives together. They had both been young when they married eight years prior and they have both changed. Perhaps he thinks she isn't changing for the better and -

"I'm sorry. I know how much that case meant to you," Taka says, his expression unreadable, "How are you?"

"I'm fine," Amandla lies, after a surprised pause. Taka gives her a look, persisting without saying a word, and she finds a quiver creeping into her throat as she continues, blurting each word as if she has no control over what she says, "He was from my mother's crew. The life support machine broke and we were forced to do emergency surgery to keep him alive but when it was successful, I thought, this is it. I don't have to be helpless anymore," Amandla smiles at the recent memory, her mouth quivering, "We had a nice talk you know? Then I had to leave and I got this page and just as quickly, he was - "

"You don't need to tell me all the horrible details," Taka says, "Just come home. We'll have a nice dinner. You can get a good night's rest. You need it," he waits for her to respond and when she does not say anything promptly he adds, "I'm not angry, Amandla."

"You're not?" Amandla asks, her voice sounding desperate to her own ears. She is tired, though, too tired to care.

He seems to hesitate, "I'm not."

"Okay," Amandla says, nodding, smiling, "I'll close everything here and be home by six."

She is already beginning to put her things away when Taka speaks again, "But you know, there is something you could do to make me feel even better." Amandla looks up and he winks, "And you know what that is."

Amandla's feels a tightness in her chest. She sighs, "Alright."

She hurries over to the door, calling out to whoever is left in the lab who could interrupt, "I'm on an important call. Don't bring me anything but emergencies." Then she locks the door and slides back into her seat.

Taka has Danae in his lap and she is trying to grab the screen and touch Amandla but Taka is hold her back. Amandla smiles and points at the large flamingo balloon crown on her daughter's head, "Jambo, Danae. I like your hat."

Danae scowls, not mincing words, "You didn't see the flamingos at the reserve today, Mama."

"I know. I'm sorry. I had to work," Amandla says. Her excuses still feel weak, especially when said to that sweet face.

"Mommy wants to make it up to you," Taka says. This entire thing is his idea. He thinks Danae is too young to appreciate a verbal apology and the best way to make her understand someone else is sorry is to make her happy again.

"Happy Dance!" Danae says, clapping in anticipation.

"What was that? What did you say there?" Amandla tries, "Happenstance? I'm not sure what that means."

"Quit stalling," Taka says, reaching over to turn on the music.

It does not bear describing, what the happy dance entails. By the end, Taka is biting his lip so hard, it is turning white, and Danae is smiling, the most joyful expression Amandla can imagine.

It is embarrassing and more than a little masochistic but she tolerates it for one simple reason. This is who she wants Danae to know. Not the scientist, not the surgeon. Amandle wants Danae to know her mother, the faulty being that loves her daughter and will perform a silly dance if that makes her only child happy.

"I'll be home in an hour," Amandla promises, slightly out of breath. And she will be. She will not even look at the cell.

"Yes," Taka says, his voice strained, before disconnecting.


	3. Chapter 3

Nyota watches the clock out of the corner of her eye. Normally, she would think this kind of behavior was rude. Today, is not like most days though. She finished her last exam five hours ago. Once she finishes up with Commander Spock, she's going out with Gaila to celebrate the end of their third year at Starfleet. Then tomorrow, she will be headed back home, to see her family whom she's been sick missing.

The clock ticks as it hits the top of the hour. Nyota stands up so quickly the desk is shoved forward, rudely scraping across the floor. Commander Spock looks up from his work at the sound. She smiles sheepishly, "Sorry."

He does not respond to her apology, nor he does he look her in the eye. The latter part bothers her more, even though she knows doing otherwise would go against his customs. She's seen him look others in the eye. Why doesn't he look her in the eye too? Nyota pushes her hair behind her ears, because it's something to do. She opens her mouth. She knew she should have written down what she wanted to say! Gaila had teased her mercilessly though. Now here she was, trying to find the words, while attempting to not get flustered.

She doesn't even think he's so extremely handsome that being flustered is necessary. Really. She doesn't. Really.

Commander Spock looks up from his report, "Is there something you require from me, Cadet Uhura?"

Nyota feels a strong urge to chew on her nails, a nasty habit that rears its head every time she feels nervous. She thinks about him a lot. He represents everything she wants. He's brilliant, a noted scholar on several planets with an impressive track record in the fleet, and all while being well-published and young enough to do even more.

She also genuinely likes him. He's wickedly funny, which is hard to see at first but impossible to ignore once acknowledged. Dedicated too, a trait she reveres. His lectures, despite the fact that it's his first year teaching, are always organized and concisely delivered. He has longer office hours than any other professor she's had and he never sends her away when she attends - and she attends often - hoping for a discussion. He even grades fast. His work in linguistics and others sciences is so detailed and thorough, that few find fault with it and most aspire to meet his level of scientific integrity.

There is more, of course, but she must keep that to herself.

Nyota bits her tongue. She talks about him so much Gaila has set ground rules about how often she can mention him. If she were talking to Gaila, this would be much easier. Having to stand in front of him, looking into those thoughtful, warm eyes -

Shit. Now she's just staring. He's waiting.

"I," Nyota says, pausing for absolutely no reason, "I have enjoyed working with you this year." Then, as if he needs reminding how he knows her, she adds, "As your student and as your teacher's aide."

Her voice cracks on the last words, to add insult to injury.

To makes matters worse, she has said almost nothing she wanted to say.

It seems like an eternity before he responds but when he answers, his tone is even, "I have enjoyed my role as your mentor. Based on the skills and work ethic I have noticed, I am confident you will experience substantial accomplishments at the Academy and in your career. It has been a pleasure."

He bows deeply and she wants deeply to step on her own foot to hold back her smile. She barely manages a polite bow in response.

Her words get tangled in her mouth and the only one that gets out is, "Fantastic." She shakes her head as if this will makes her thoughts coherent enough to add to this awful adjective, which doesn't even begin to cover how she feels in that moment. Finally, because her mouth is open she manages, "See ya."

She crams her things into her bag. She is so dumb. Unbelievably dumb. Unconscionably dumb.

She drops several PADDs on the floor and he kneels to pick them up. Nyota takes them, and for one brief moment, he is standing before her and she knows this is her last chance to tell him, that she thinks he's extraordinary, that working with him had been one of the best experiences she's ever had and she's never been more motivated, challenged, and invested, and if he'd have her, she wants to see him again. In any capacity really.

Instead, she smiles stupidly and says, "Okay."

"Cadet," Commander Spock says. She turns, gnawing on her thumb before she jerks her hand away from her mouth. He is reaching into his drawer. Then he is handing her a perfectly wrapped rectangular present.

It makes her embarrassingly happy. She is already planning on what she's going to tell Gaila. She tries to unwrap it maturely but there are several pieces of paper on his desk by the time she's done.

It is a book. A thin, leather bound novel with a gilded calligraphy title on its front. She rubs her fingers across the soft surface and resists the urge to hold it up to her nose. _The Prophet_ by Kahlil Gibran.

"It is a personal favorite. My mother insisted I read it as a child. It was a frequent topic of discussion," Commander Spock tells her, "There is also a fascinating history surrounding its distribution."

She's read it. Twice. It's a favorite for her too. Truthfully, she might start reading it a third time when she's out in the hall and his office door has closed.

"Thank you, Commander," Nyota says, holding the book close to her chest. She adores printed word and she's almost embarrassed with herself by how happy she is that he is giving her a gift, "I will cherish this."

She smiles at him because she wants to. He is not unnerved by the gesture. In fact, she swear it looks like he's smiling back with his eyes. Then she is turning to leave, for good this time, when he says.

"Perhaps we could discuss it on some occasion in the near future?"

.

.

.

She thumbs through the pages when she is waiting for the transporter home. That's when she finds it: the note his mother wrote to him on the final page. It's fairly benign yet when she sees the words of love and affection, she feels almost intrusive. Had he known this message was here? Of course he hadn't. He wouldn't have give it to her if he had. Should she return it? He might ask why. He might be embarrassed. She forces herself not to read it. She covers it with a bookmark.

.

.

.

When Kamau sees the book in her hands as she lays on her bed in her room in Kenya, her brother snorts, "Again?"

But not Makena. Her sister sits behind her, peeking over her shoulder to read with her. After a few quiet moments, Makena says, "I didn't know you had a paper copy of that book."

"I didn't. It was a gift," Nyota says. She doesn't give any more information. Makena would piece it all together in a second if she knew more.

They read together in silence for a few more minutes before their mother calls them down to eat dinner. Nyota hasn't had a moment to herself since she arrived home. Her brother has been at school and her sister has been off planet on a project and the family hasn't been together for months. When Makena leaves to set the table, Nyota quickly sends a message to Commander Spock.

 _Hello Commander,_

 _I hope this message finds you well. I have arrived safely at my parent's home in Nairobi._

 _Thank you for the book. I've already read it but I have found no issue in reading it again. Good literature gives one words for the indescribable._

 _You give but little when you give of your possessions._

 _It is when you give of yourself that you truly give._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Nyota_

The last part she wrote on impulse. It is a quote from the book. He asked her if she wanted to discuss it. This is, by the barest of definitions, innocent discussion. She wants to write more but she feels like she is about to pass an unspoken boundary. She holds her breath as she sends it, running down the steps to share a meal with her family so she doesn't have to think about it again.

.

.

.

Her family plays cards after dinner. Thirteen card rummy. Nyota hates the game but it's her mother's favorite. Kamau cheats. Baba still wins by several points.

Halfway through, she hears the chime of her PADD. Someone sent her a message. She doesn't answer. Baba would be angry if she did. She has an inkling of hope for who the sender could be but she chastises herself.

However, to her adulation, the message is from Commander Spock.

 _Cadet Uhura,_

 _I am gratified to learn you reached your destination safely. I will be spending our academic break at the Starfleet campus. My work requires silence and a lack of chaos I do not think I will experience at my family home. My mother, you must understand, is attempting to raise a litter of juvenile sehlats, possibly, as my aunt is fond of telling me, as a replacement for myself._

 _I do, however, miss your companionship. Please reply with your favorite chapter of the book with an explanation as to why it is superlative to the rest. I will submit a rebuttal._

 **I do, however, miss your companionship.** Nyota's heart almost stops.

She doesn't even like him. Really. She doesn't.

.

.

.

It's all very innocent at first.

Her favorite passage is 'On Work.'

 _ **Always you have been told that work is a curse and labour a misfortune.**_

 _But I say to you that when you work you fulfil a part of earth's furthest dream, assigned to you when that dream was born,_

 _And in keeping yourself with labour you are in truth loving life,_

 _And to love life through labour is to be intimate with life's inmost secret. . ._

 _ **Work is love made visible.**_

 _And if you cannot work with love but only with distaste, it is better that you should leave your work and sit at the gate of the temple and take alms of those who work with joy._

 _For if you bake bread with indifference, you bake a bitter bread that feeds but half man's hunger._

 _And if you grudge the crushing of the grapes, your grudge distils a poison in the wine._

 _And if you sing though as angels, and love not the singing, you muffle man's ears to the voices of the day and the voices of the night._

She only means to tell him her love for the words are a testament to her dedication to follow her passion. That is what she means to tell him.

Instead she writes a ballad, describing her parent's love for hard work. Not hard work orientated towards a goal but hard work meant to strain the mind and burden the soul and in the end, prove strength of character. She tells him about how determined they were, how driven they were, how any means were necessary, even to the point that their children had practically raised themselves. She doesn't despise them for their choices, of course. It's much too late for that. Sometimes, however, she resents that when the time came to choose between what they desired and what their children needed, the weight always fell toward their own gains.

She tells him about her own struggles, to adhere to her parent's wishes and lifestyle and her deep despair when she realized everything about it went against something deeply personal about her. She had no qualms about hard work but she desired work that made her excited, inspired. Only when she went against their hopes for her was she happy. However, after she had, it devastated them to the point where they never wished to speak about her schooling or work, no matter how many years past.

Then, in an exciting and terrifying moment, she tells him about how worthwhile it all is. She could prove herself to them. She knew she could. She would present them with so many medals, so many distinctions, so many achievements that one day they would see her ends were the same as there and they would finally look on her decision as meaningful, even by their standards.

She does not mean for it to be so intimate. She agonizes over the decision of whether to send it or not. In the end, she does, after reviewing it a thousand times, with the eyes of a school administrator, a future starship captain, and an older version of herself. Then, because she wants for him to know her, truly know her, she sends it.

It's all very innocent, you see.

 _._

 _._

 _._

His response is very innocent too. His favorite passage is, 'On Teaching'.

 _No man can reveal to you aught but that which already lies half asleep in the dawning of your knowledge._

 _The teacher who walks in the shadow of the temple, among his followers, gives not of his wisdom but rather of his faith and his lovingness._

 _If he is indeed wise he does not bid you enter the house of his wisdom, but rather leads you to the threshold of your own mind._

 _The astronomer may speak to you of his understanding of space, but he cannot give you his understanding._

 _The musician may sing to you of the rhythm which is in all space, but he cannot give you the ear which arrests the rhythm, nor the voice that echoes it._

 _And he who is versed in the science of numbers can tell of the regions of weight and measure, but he cannot conduct you thither._

 _For the vision of one man lends not its wings to another man._

 _And even as each one of you stands alone in God's knowledge, so must each one of you be alone in his knowledge of God and in his understanding of the earth._

She understands why. The words are him. Self-driven. He does not demand anything from his students. He offers his vast knowledge at their disposal but in the end, he is a guide, not a shepherd. The work students put into the class is directly reflected in their grade..

She writes back, telling him as much. Then Kamau wants to go swimming. When she returns, there is no response and this bring her both relief and sadness.

.

.

.

The next day her parents and brother go for a hike. Makena, who had spent the last several months with early mornings and late nights doing work for her research project, is more keen on sleeping until noon. Nyota, who's keen on finishing her book, offers to stay with her.

Makena makes good on her promise. Nyota prepares, eats, and cleans up a morning meal but her sister does not make an appearance. She is thumbing idly when she receives a call on her communicator. An icy shock passes through her when she sees it's from Commander Spock.

She drops the communicator on the table and runs to the bathroom. Her hair is fine but she doesn't have a trace of make-up on and she is still wearing her 'Starfleet Academy Chorale Ensemble' shirt which she wore to sleep. She runs to the door, stops, returns to the mirror, freezes, and then makes a decision. She doesn't have the Commander's number. She must pick up. It could have something to do with the student's grades.

Nyota flings herself into her chair, adjusts the screen so he can't see what she's wearing, brushes her hair back, and answers. When her face fills the screen, she makes a noise. When she moved the screen, she put it at such an angle that he can see directly up her nose. She fixes it but when he appears a moment later, she can't be sure he didn't see.

"Hello Commander," Nyota says. Her voice is deep and gravelly from sleep and the words sound strange. She forcefully clears her throat, "Hello."

"Hello Cadet Uhura. My apologies. Did I wake you?" the Commander asks.

"No, I'm fine," Nyota says. Her shirt looks dirty and hideous on the screen and she casually wraps an arm around herself to hide her shame before deciding this is even more awkward and laying her hand calmly on the table.

He looks perfect, naturally. Dignified. Fully dressed and ready to face the world.

"My apologies," Commander Spock says, "I have finished making my marks on the final exams and I simply wanted to be the first to congratulate you. You have received the highest grade in your linguistics unit. No other students has attains such a degree of mastery in over fifty six years."

Nyota blinks, "I'm sorry. Could you repeat that?"

"You have received the highest score on Xenolinguistic 201, when compared to cohorts of the past fifty-six years."

"You're talking about me," Nyota says, still in disbelief. It's not the first time she's been top of the class. Not by a long shot. She just never expected to be the top of his class, the professor everyone warned other students about, let alone with the highest score seen in decades. He doesn't give grades. He gives marks that people earn. He thinks she earned this grade. All of this, coming from him, the one she adores so much . . .

She allows the words to settle and in the next second she is torn between sitting calmly and running to wake up Makena and share the news. She chooses to remain calm.

"I am," Commander Spock says. No doubt he is questioning the merits of giving her such a high score now, "You are an extraordinary student. Your score is indicative of an unparalleled ability to identify sonic anomalies in subspace transmissions tests. I would praise your natural abilities but that would be ignoring your obvious dedication and perseverance. So, I will do as humans do, and simply say, 'Good work."

"Thank you, Commander," Nyota says.

"It was your doing Cadet. Praise your work, not my teaching," Commander Spock replies.

"No, Commander. You were an excellent mentor. You have been invaluable to me," Nyota says. There they are. The words which escaped her in his office.

"Please enjoy the rest of your break, Cadet," Commander Spock says.

"Wait," Nyota says. Commander Spock stops. The sight of his eyes makes her stutter, "What part are you on?"

"I do not understand the question, Cadet."

"What part of the book are you currently reading?" Nyota clarifies.

Spock's eyes pierce through her, making her spine tingle, "I have an eidetic memory, Cadet. I am not currently reading the book. I need only recall."

"Really?" Nyota says, "Half the joy of literature is reading it. Not reading it ever again is like going to an art museum and closing your eyes."

He tilts his head, opening his mouth to respond but even though Nyota doesn't know how to explain it, she wants to show him.

"Take the passage On Clothing'," Nyota says, picking up the book, "Can I read it to you?"

"Yes," Commander Spock says. He sounds hesitant but the moment is making Nyota's heart race and she read, stumbling on words in her excitement before dictating properly.

 _Your clothes conceal much of your beauty, yet they hide not the unbeautiful._

 _And though you seek in garments the freedom of privacy you may find in them a harness and a chain._

 _Would that you could meet the sun and the wind with more of your skin and less of your raiment,_

 _For the breath of life is in the sunlight and the hand of life is in the wind._

 _Some of you say, "It is the north wind who has woven the clothes to wear."_

 _But shame was his loom, and the softening of the sinews was his thread._

 _And when his work was done he laughed in the forest._

 _Forget not that modesty is for a shield against the eye of the unclean._

 _And when the unclean shall be no more, what were modesty but a fetter and a fouling of the mind?_

Before she can speak the last sentence, he interrupts her, his voice hoarse, "And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair."

There is something in the way he speaks, something Nyota doesn't dare try to describe.

Unfortunately, words are her passion and she does against her own will. He speaks like he couldn't believe she would choose that passage. As if she had intruded where he either didn't want her or didn't dare have her. Almost as if he envies the sun and the wind and the earth.

He has his eyes closed, has forced his breathing to slow. Nyota doesn't know what to do with herself. She cannot speak as that would interrupt him. She cannot leave as that would be rude.

Finally, he does open his eyes. He looks right at her, his gaze unwavering as he openly stares at her, his breath still hindered. Neither can speak and neither can look away.

"Nyota!"

Nyota jumps, her knee knocking against the table. She pushes the chair over as she stands, somehow manages to turn off the communicator, and rushes into the hall where her sister is coming down the stairs.

"Is there tea?" Makena asks, yawning widely.

"Yes. I mean no. Uhm," Nyota's hand fumble but that fails to bring words to her lips, "There's. You know."

"Why are you acting stupid?" Makana asks, "Who were you talking to?"

"I'll make you tea," Nyota says, grabbing Makena's arm and pulling her back into the kitchen too forcefully. She shoves Makena into a chair, apologizes profusely for doing so, and begins loudly boiling water.

"What's wrong with you?" Makena asks.

Nyota smiles at her, and if the expression looks half as rattled as she feels, it is a terrifying expression indeed, "No one. Do you want honey?"

.

.

.

Later, he sends a message. For hours she can't bear to read it. She doesn't want to hear it was a mistake. She doesn't want to know he regrets it. She doesn't want an affirmation that she was mistaken and he feels nothing for her.

Finally, when everyone else is in bed and she can't fall asleep and the ceiling still fails to answer her silent questions, she reads it. It's is a passage, "Of Reason and Passion". There is no message.

 _Your soul is oftentimes a battlefield, upon which your reason and your judgment wage war against passion and your appetite._

 _Would that I could be the peacemaker in your soul, that I might turn the discord and the rivalry of your elements into oneness and melody._

 _But how shall I, unless you yourselves be also the peacemakers, nay, the lovers of all your elements?_

 _Your reason and your passion are the rudder and the sails of your seafaring soul._

 _If either your sails or our rudder be broken, you can but toss and drift, or else be held at a standstill in mid-seas._

 _For reason, ruling alone, is a force confining; and passion, unattended, is a flame that burns to its own destruction._

 _Therefore let your soul exalt your reason to the height of passion; that it may sing;_

 _And let it direct your passion with reason, that your passion may live through its own daily resurrection, and like the phoenix rise above its own ashes._

 _I would have you consider your judgment and your appetite even as you would two loved guests in your house._

 _Surely you would not honour one guest above the other; for he who is more mindful of one loses the love and the faith of both._

 _Among the hills, when you sit in the cool shade of the white poplars, sharing the peace and serenity of distant fields and meadows - then let your heart say in silence, "God rests in reason."_

 _And when the storm comes, and the mighty wind shakes the forest, and thunder and lightning proclaim the majesty of the sky, - then let your heart say in awe, "God moves in passion."_

 _And since you are a breath In God's sphere, and a leaf in God's forest, you too should rest in reason and move in passion._

.

.

.

"Who is he, Nyota?" Makena asks.

"Who's who?" Nyota asks. She is braiding her younger sister's hair, a busy task which doesn't allow her to think.

"The man you are in love with," Makena says. Nyota's hands freeze and Makena pulls away until her hair is out of Nyota's grasp, turning to face her older sister, "Don't deny it. I know."

"You're silly," Nyota says, "You know that? You're - "

"That can be classified as denial," Makena says.

Nyota's mouth opens and closes. She feels her eyes burn. When she speaks, her voice cracks, "I shouldn't."

"But you do," Makena says.

Nyota doesn't look at her. She studies the design on the carpet, her mind racing. Makena pats her knees before reaching out to pick up the book. Both sisters have read it but Makena still has to flip through the pages to find the right words.

"Your hearts know in silence the secrets of the days and the nights," Makena reads as she changing pages, "Be in your pleasures like the flowers and the bees."

"I don't want to talk about it. It's stupid. Very, very stupid," Nyota says, scoffing, "I'm never going to be able to look at that book the same way again. Just let it go, okay?"

Makena nodds but Nyota can't help but notice a glimmer in her sister's eyes.

That night, at dinner, Makena surprises both her parents and her sister by saying, "I want to go to the city tomorrow."

"What?" Baba says.

"Alone?" Mama says, "No. You don't need to. No."

"No," Baba adds.

"But one of the professors from my university is giving a lecture. I want to do research with him. This would be a good time to introduce myself," Makena insists, "Please? It would be so good for my career."

Mama and Baba look at one another. Mama says, "Kamau has to go with you."

"Huh?" Kamau says.

"Yeah," Makena says, eyes widening, "The lecture isn't until 7 but we can go shopping beforehand. We can take the train at 9, arrives at 10:30. That gives us about eight hours or so to looks at shoes, jewelry, clothes - "

"Mama! It's my break too! Make Nyota go," Kamau whines.

Makena has a look in her eyes. Nyota has seen the look before and knows there is no point resisting. Nyota holds her breath as she quickly adds, "I don't mind."

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.

.

"You know Mama and Baba thought you meant Nairobi," Nyota says, the next day as they are on their way to San Francisco.

"I was unspecific," Makena concludes.

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.

.

According to the faculty locator, he is in the library. She goes there and when she arrives she hears him calling out from somewhere in the vast expanse of the library. He hears her too.

"Hello Michael. Could you please provide me with the access code for the translation programs? Dr. Bertinson changes it on a tri-monthly basis and he failed to provide it to me after he altered it yesterday."

She doesn't respond. For a moment, she considers leaving. Makena went to Berkley, to visit a friend studying at Cal but she will understand and return if need be.

"Michael? Please speak so I may ascertain your location."

"It's not Michael," Nyota whispers before raising her voice to say, "It's Nyota."

She hears his footsteps echoing through the library but she cannot tell where they are coming from. She looks for him but can't see him. Then, suddenly, she is instinctively aware he is behind her. She wraps her arms around herself and turns to face him.

"I'm sorry," Nyota blurts, her panic getting the best of her, "I don't even know what I'm doing here. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything."

She is confused. She feels deep affection, painful guilt, intense desire, tenderness, and a miracle of emotions she doesn't want but can't ignore.

"Please do not leave," Commander Spock says before she can escape.

"This is inappropriate," Nyota says.

"Perhaps," Commander Spock concedes.

"There could be consequences to this," Nyota adds.

"Most probable," Commander Spock says.

"We shouldn't even be here," Nyota concludes.

"I agree," Commander Spock says.

"Then how did this happen?" Nyota says. He steps closer, a modest movement which leaves several feet of space between them but still makes her chest tighten, "I had convinced myself I didn't even like you. You gave me no indication for so long and now - How long have you even felt like this?"

"I noticed your symmetrical features on the first day of class when you came forward to discuss the day's lesson. It was stimulating but it was of no substance to me. However, on February 27 of this year, one of your classmates made a comment that my grading rubric was unfair and you argued that it was not difficult but challenging. The statements you made that followed gave evidence to my prior assumption that you were a person of substance. You have a profound confidence and belief in your own character and talents. It was intriguing and I could not forget."

"We were in close proximity for the four months which followed. I was your student. I was your assistant," Nyota says, "I would never have known if you hadn't given me the book."

"I contemplated not giving you that gift but now that I have made my confession, I have no regret," Commander Spock says.

"You don't?" Nyota says, "Are you sure?"

"I am."

"Can you say it?" Nyota asks. She swears her heart is about to stop but she must proceed, "Please?"

He takes another step, a large step, which closes the distance between them. He is close enough now that she can feel the warmth of his body. "I am very much enamored with you Nyota."

Then, she is moving towards him, throwing her arms around his neck, kissing his face: his smooth cheeks, his beautiful jaw, his handsome forehead, and his perfect, perfect mouth. When he reaches around her to pull her close, her legs go weak and he must hold her tightly.

"I adore your diligence," Nyota tells him, leaning onto her toes so she can kiss his eyebrows, fulfilling a desire which has been swelling inside her for months, "and the way you raise your eyebrows every time something interest you."

"I find the manner in which you hold yourself equally assured in front of those of similar standing and those of seniority to be very rousing. I enjoy watching you advocate for yourself. I profoundly enjoy the complexity and innovation of your thoughts when we have discussions," Spock says. He gently holds her face still and kisses her deeply on the mouth, before adding, "You have many physical and personal traits I admired. I could go into great detail if you desired such."

Nyota laughs and leans her head against his shoulder. He holds her steady against himself and she sighs. She turns whispering the chapter that reminded her of him the most:

 _When love beckons to you follow him,_

 _Though his ways are hard and steep._

 _And when his wings enfold you yield to him,_

 _Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you._

 _And when he speaks to you believe in him,_

 _Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden._

 _For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you._

 _Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning._

He is pressing his lips to her crown when they both hear his name being called from somewhere in the library. It is the Michael he was waiting for earlier. Commander Spock pushes her away gently.

"Please wait in my office," he tells her in a low voice, "I do not have any appointments this afternoon and I wish to spend time with you."

She kisses his hand and grudgingly leaves. In the hall, she pauses to touch her face. It is strangely tangible, hot and flushed under her fingers. Her smile is almost painful. She opens her communicator, her feet taking her to the Commander's office on memory alone. She must warn Makena they will be late returning home. After she and the Commander discuss things, she has several more thoughts she wants to explore with him.


	4. Chapter 4

As far as she can tell, they are flowers.

The plants have a thick dark purple stock which is covered in large jet-black thorns, which are dripping in a clear aquamarine fluid. At the tops are wispy, emerald green buds, which look more like tiny shrubs than actual petals. Nyota reaches out to pull the vase of flower closer and she swears the entire plant shrivels into itself like a shy child.

There many vases in the room. Twelve on the table, six on her bedstand, and more than she had time to count on the floor. No one had told her they were coming. She had returned from session to find her room had been invaded by the strange plants.

Nyota inspects the vases. They are flat, octagonal, and wide, made from a grey metal that is warm to her touch. The roots of each plant are submerged in what looks like water but smells exactly like leather and feels sticky and thick like jelly.

Amongst each plant, there is a digital card placed at the top of a stick, which flashes bright, neon letters randomly. The characters are loose and curly, much like a decoration on a rug. The letters fly across the screen helter skelter but she cannot help but think there is a pattern to them.

The colorful things, whatever they may be, are making her head ache. They are bright and gaudy and menacing all at the same time and suddenly, without true reason, she wants them out of her room.

She remember in that moment: another day, one with a red sky and an oppressively hot sun which bears down upon her. The ground underneath her feet is wet, smells dank and slightly metallic. In front of her, flames leap up as men and women dressed in heavy safety suits throw items on a fire. She watches as they burn bedding, clothes, furniture, toys, books, pictures, and other things that make a home. It all has to go. It's for the best, she thinks. Her head begins to pound.

Nyota throws open her door, escaping into the hallway. The air is hot, suffocating as she tries to catch her breath. The world spins, colors blurring in her vision until she trips on her own feet and stumbles to the floor. She lands hard on her knees, the force of the impact knocking the air from her lungs.

She freezes, staring at the ground which is mercifully solid. Her fingers grip the wood flooring but she feels nothing. She blinks and she sees the fire and destruction. She breathes and she smells blood and smoke.

Something cool and soft grazes against her cheek. Nyota turns, still on the brinck of panic, to see an older woman is kneeling behind her, watching with calm brown eyes and speaking to her in a warm tone.

Nyota forces herself to inhale and exhale, willing herself to focus on the woman's voice and nothing else. "What did you say?" Nyota manages to mutter, "I couldn't hear you."

"I asked if you were alright," the woman says. She moves her hand from Nyota's cheek to entangle their fingers. The woman smiles and when she speaks again, Nyota can hear her with new clarity, "Would you believe me if I told you that you were safe? You are safe, my darling dear. No harm will come to you so long as I am here."

Nyota does not respond but grips the woman's hand just a bit tighter, her attention beginning to move away from the woman's voice to notice other details. There is jazz music being played in one of the rooms down the hall. There is a spider web in the highest corner of the nearby window. The older woman is wearing purple sneakers.

The woman continues talking, "Can you take deep breathes for me? Inhale, hold the air in your lungs, feel your chest expand, exhale fully. Good. Now take another breath."

Nyota obeys the instruction. Her chest aches but her heart begins to slow. Nyota smells the oil which was used to polish the floor and sees the black ring which adorns the woman's hand and the silver ribbon that is plaited into the woman's gray hair.

"Shall we count too? That always makes me feel better when I am nervous. Backward from 100? Say the numbers with me. One hundred, ninety nine, ninety eight, ninety seven . . . "

They count all the way to zero, kneeling in the empty hallway, clasping hands as if they are anything but strangers.

"How do you feel now?" The woman asks when they have finished.

"Better," Nyota says. It is true. She takes notice of the sunlight filtering through the window of the institute which has become her home. She hears the noise of other patients as they go to have their lunch in the dining room below. This is real. This, she understands.

Nyota feels the woman letting go of her hand. The woman smiles, sheepish, "My apologies. I shouldn't have touched you without asking."

"That's alright," Nyota says, standing up.

The woman stands up too. She tosses a thick braid of hair over her shoulder, watching Nyota with brown eyes and a gaze that seems strangely affectionate.

"Thank you," Nyota says, "I'm Uhura."

The woman nods, "I'm Dr. Kimathi."

"Dr. Kimathi," Nyota says. The name seems familiar yet she cannot say where she has heard it before. "Have we met before?"

The woman shakes her head, a sly grin crossing her mouth. She shrugs before saying, "Perhaps."

Nyota thinks about it for a moment. Then she sees the scar on Dr. Kimathi's wrist and says, "Oh! You held my hand."

It is her first new memory, the first made at the institute. She was coming out of surgery. Her muscles were dense and unyielding and her mind was on another planet. There had been three staff members standing over her: one monitoring her vitals, another giving directions, and the third, holding her hand and watching her, eyes bright as she had smiled at Nyota.

Dr. Kimathi's grin deepens, "Yes. I still supervise procedures and I like to show the patients they have someone there for them."

"Yes," Nyota says, "I did. I did appreciate your presence."

"I'm glad," Dr. Kimathi says. She fists her left hand, the very same appendage which had touched Nyota and asks, "Are you going to lunch?"

"I will," Nyota says.

"Good," Dr. Kimathi says, "It pleases me to see you well, Uhura."

Dr. Kimathi smiles one last time at Nyota before walking away. She turns the corner, glancing back to see Nyota is still watching for her. Just before she vanishes from sight, Nyota sees Dr. Kimathi grin to herself.

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Every night just before bed, she makes record of things she has recalled during the day, lest she forget something as she sleeps.

The first several pages describe weak sensations and distant emotions. Softness. Protection. Warmth. Beauty. Green. Novelty. Vibrancy. Tenderness. Cooing. Delight. Helplessness. Loyalty. Worry. Golden. Obedience. Clumsiness. Silliness. Gratitiude. Shyness. Pride. Grumpiness. Expanse. Roughness. Scrawniness. Melodies. Crying. Playing. Spiciness. Substance. Burning. Cuddling. Humidity. Abundance.

The pages which follow are more clear, more distinct. What nights had smelled like in Kenya when she was a child looking for insects to study. How stiff and uncomfortable her school uniform had felt the first time she had worn it on her first day of preschool. The taste of her grandmother's homemade naan. Her brother and sister giggling in the bunk underneath her at their family vacation home. The way her mother's nose crinkled when she laughed and the inevitable twinkle which came to her father's eyes when he saw this.

Finally, there are facts. She took dance and vocal lessons for fifteen and thirteen years respectively when she was a child. She had never broken a bone. Her brother had the same birthday as their father and her sister's was five feet, eight inches tall, the same height as their mother. She had eight first cousins. She has only ever received A grades in school. She was named after her father's childhood friend. She had her first kiss when she was fifteen. Her favorite color was purple. She had superstitions about the number six.

In the latest memory she can recall, she is twenty two years old, sitting by a window in a shuttle, waving at her family. Her mother is crying, her brother looks bored, and her father is glaring. Her sister, however, is smiling, looking overjoyed for Nyota. When Nyota had seen this, she too had begun to feel excited.

They are nothing more than words on a paper but she cherishes them as if they are priceless treasures. Experiencing them and seeing them documented reminds her that there is a life waiting for her, one that she can have if only she can find it.

.

.

.

"Sorry," the technician says. He has pulled his PADD out of his bag and along with it had come a huge card, which covers the desk in sparkling dust. In spite of his apology, he shows it to Nyota. A picture of five smiling children and pretty woman has been glued upon the paper, along with several paper flowers, glitter, and ribbon.

Globs of paste stick to Nyota's fingers but she doesn't mind. Written in bright green across the top of the card are the words: 'Have a Good Day Daddy.' She smiles, nodding her approval to the technician who is waiting for her reaction, "It's cute."

"Aren't they talented?" The technician says. He points to each child in the picture in turn, "Those are my khagans Khutulun, Bortei, Toregene. My wife Chuluuny - she teaches Mongolian history hence our daughters' names. And my twins, Asad and Luciano. We're expecting our sixth in July."

"They're beautiful," Nyota says. Her throat feels tight at the sight of her technician's family. The hairs on her neck rise and she notices that the technician is still watching her. "You must be very proud."

"Absolutely," the technician says, "I've always wanted a big family. They are the joys of my life."

He reaches out and Nyota hands him the card. He carefully puts it back into his bag. Then he hands Nyota his PADD, "Shall we read again today?"

"Alright," Nyota says. She looks at the writing before her and sees that it is more latin verses, which pleases her. The technician settles into his chair, nodding for Nyota to begin. She reads, the words flowing easily off her tongue, but she cannot shake the tension which had settled on her the moment she had seen the photograph, "Vita nec scrutata vita nequam est."

"What is the translation?" the technician says.

"Idiomatically, 'The unexamined life is a worthless life."

"Excellent," the technician says, writing down notes. Nyota leans back in her chair, taking in the dozens of latin phrases from 'The Last Days of Socrates' that she translates with ease. Altogether, she had learned the language in a little less than two weeks. This fact brings her almost no satisfaction.

"Next week, we can start reading the Phaedo and the Crito," the technician says, smiling at Nyota as she finishes and he completes his notes, "Would you like that?"

"Sure," Nyota says. This is the part she has come to dread. He will ask her what she would like to know and she will be torn between dozens of questions, each more compelling than the last.

He doesn't ask her however. Instead he hands her an envelope. When she stares at it, confused by this change in ceremony, he nods, telling her, "Open it. It's yours."

It is a simple white envelope. Nyota gripes the thick folds and sees the outline of what is inside. It is a flat rectangle with a smooth surface. A picture, she realizes. She tears away the paper,

It is a photograph of brown haired girl, dangling from a tree branch, grinning at the camera with round baby teeth. Nyota takes in the image of eyes that had always seemed happy to see her and small hands which had always sought out her own, and the curls which had been so adamantly against brushing.

The technician leans forward to look as well. "What did they give you?"

"This is my daughter," Nyota says, "This is my Amandla."

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.

.

There is a small, thin tube in the drawer of her bathroom. Nyota finds herself staring at it one morning as she readies for the day. It does not belong to her, nor was it previously among the essential toiletries which her room is usually stocked with.

She picks it up, examine the silver and bright pink design which adorns its exterior. In her head, she hears laughter and gentle teasing from nights which have long passed. The sounds of old friends echo in her head. Nyota likes to dance and music makes her happy; it made sense that she now remembered nights spent going out. She tosses it back in the drawer and pulls out her toothbrush, feeling hollow.

Nyota watches the tube out of the corner of her eye as she goes about her usual routine until she can't resist any longer.

She pinches the top of the tube, twisting until the applicator can emerge. The eyeliner is black, simple black; straight to the point, timelessly elegant, no nonsense black.

Nyota glances at herself in the mirror. She has been at the institute for months and never worn makeup in that time. It was never available to her until this point. She is not even certain she knows how to put it on until she begins pulling the liner from its container and her hands begin to move with certainty.

Nyota leans close to the mirror, examining her face. She cleans the liner with a bit of paper so the point is fine, then dips it back into the container again to pick up a small amount. She presses down on the corner of her eyes, pulling lightly to smooth her eyelids. Her hands are surprisingly graceful as she brushes around the perimeter of her eyelids. When that is done, she is inspired to add a slight accentuation on the corner of her lids.

Nyota leans back to admire her work. The lines are clean and exact. This is infinitely pleasing to her. She moves to begin the other eye.

Without warning, the memory resurfaces. She is in another bathroom, placing Amandla on the counter. Persuaded, Nyota is gently applying black eyeliner to her daughter's eyes, whispering her secrets as she works, "Be confident Amandla. Even if it's not perfect, you can try again. It's simple: gracefully up, down, and around."

Nyota recalls Amandla turning to see herself in the mirror when her mother is finished. It is only temporary, a secret they will share. Amandla faces Nyota again, tilting up her head to allow her mother to wash off the makeup, "I like it, Mama."

The tip of the applicator touches the sclera of Nyota's right eye and the brush falls from her hand as pain races through her. Nyota turns on the facet, cupping her hands to collect water. She rinses out her eye until the redness fades.

She closes her eyes for a moment, both to soothe the burning and to recall. She has had no memories of her own child until that moment. Round cheeks with a hint of baby fat. Golden brown eyes with flecks of emerald. An easy smile.

 _Our Amandla._

There is a random streak of eyeliner across her cheekbone. Nyota washes it off along with the makeup she has already applied. Her face is bare as she tosses the eyeliner behind a shelf.

.

.

.

"Can I sit here?" Nyota asks.

Dr. Kimathi looks up, her eyebrows knitting as she analyzes Nyota up and down. When Nyota had noticed her across the cafeteria, the woman had been staring intently into the teacup in her hands. Nyota bits her tongue, certain she has annoyed the doctor. She had only meant to give company to another lonely soul. Bo is in physical therapy. Usually at this time in the day, they take a walk around the perimeter of the institute but today the muscles in her friend's left leg had felt stiff and he had required physical therapy to ease his pain. Nyota begins looking around for another place to sit when Dr. Kimathi finally speaks, "Of course."

Nyota pauses, positive she is unwanted and the woman is being polite, until the woman smiles, so broadly and so earnestly, Nyota's guilt fades and she feels comfortable sitting down.

"How have you been?" Dr. Kimathi asks.

"Very well," Nyota responds, without even thinking about the question. She turns her attention to her oatmeal, mixing in cocoa powder and honey.

"Is that true?" Dr. Kimathi says. Nyota looks up from her food. Dr. Kimathi is watching her, with eyes that still seem oddly affectionate.

What does Dr. Kimathi see when she looks at Nyota? Does she just see a patient who is better for her efforts or something else?

Nyota shifts in her seat, "I feel frustrated."

"I understand," Dr. Kimathi says, "The memories, they always seem to take far too long to return. I've never met a single patient who was not impatient."

"I also think," Nyota says and then stops. There is nothing judgemental about Dr. Kimathi's gaze nor is anything but kindness in her expression, and yet she cannot bring herself to speak truthfully. Finally, she manages to say, "I also think something is preventing me from remembering."

"Yes," Dr. Kimathi says, "Sometimes bad events can prevent patients from regaining their memories."

Nyota shakes her head. The very thought of having experienced an event so terrible she didn't want to remember made her stomach turn.

"How are you?" Nyota asks, hoping this will change the conversation.

Dr. Kimathi seems to pause, "Very well. My family and I are planning a party."

"Your family?" Nyota asks, intrigued. She had enjoyed this before too. She had liked people, liked hearing their stories, knowing them.

Dr. Kimathi pauses before she answers, as if she needs to think about what she is going to say, "I have four children, six grandchildren, and ten great-grandchildren. I was married for seventy three years. My husband died three years, four months, and 22 days ago.

 _Specific_ , Nyota thinks, her mouth pinching to hid her random amusement, "I'm sorry. You must miss him terribly."

"It was difficult to forget his habits but I still have my family," Dr. Kimathi says.

"I've always wanted a family," Nyota says, "I would have loved having grandchildren."

This she knows instinctively. She has only begun to remember her young adulthood. Yesterday in session, she recalled her twenty-first birthday. Or parts of it.

Dr. Kimathi's expression changes minutely. Before Nyota can even interpret the new face, it is back to a more neutral mien. "They are wonderful," Dr. Kimathi says, "I love them dearly."

Nyota smiles, uncertain how to proceed. Dr. Kimathi takes a final sip from her cup before standing, saying, "I require more coffee." Nyota nods, feeling somewhat rejected until Dr. Kimathi adds after a moment of silence, "Would you like to join me? I roast it myself. My office is right down the hall."

"Yes," Nyota says, widening her eyes to emphasize her point. She lowers her voice so no one will overhear, "The coffee here is awful."

Dr. Kimathi chuckles before biting her lip. She moves around the table and takes a hold of Nyota's upper arm, "No one knows that better than I, dear."

Dr. Kimathi's office is shockingly bare. There is no desk, only an extension on the windowsill with a small computer, a lamp, and a stool and then a couch in the center of the room. What she lacks in furniture, she makes up for in books and pictures. Two entire walls are covered in shelves which are packed with books of all sizes. On every bare inch of furthest wall, from top to bottom, hangs a framed picture. Nyota makes a beeline for the wall of photographs.

"Is this you?" Nyota asks, pointing to a teenager on a mountain top.

"Yes. When I was a toddler, they said I would never be very athletic because of my various illnesses. I decided they were wrong," she tells Nyota, winking.

Nyota laughs before pointing to another photograph, "And this must be your husband,"

"Yes," Dr. Kimathi says, stroking the handsome man's picture, "That's my Adil."

Nyota touches the doctor's arm before pointing to another picture, "Who's this?"

Dr. Kimathi is glowing with pride as she shows Nyota each of her family members, "That's my oldest child Thandiewe. And there is my youngest son Sizwe, and these are my twins Ama and Amadi," Nyota nods along, trying to remember each name. Then, Dr. Kimathi is telling her stories and Nyota loses track of time.

"I had a daughter," Nyota finds herself confessing to Dr. Kimathi, "Her name was Amandla."

"But you can't remember her, can you?" Dr. Kimathi says. When Nyota doesn't respond, Dr. Kimathi adds, "Don't worry. You will. You are strong enough to move past that which prevents you from having access to those happy days."

These words please Nyota greatly. They are the first affirmation she has received in a very long time.

"Can I see you tomorrow?" Nyota asks after they finish their coffee and Nyota has learned the entirety of Dr. Kimathi's family tree, "Perhaps we can have lunch?"

Dr. Kimathi smiles, so pleasantly Nyota can't believe she ever thought the woman was slightly strange.

"I would enjoy that very much Nyota."

.

.

.

There is a different air in the institute today.

"Is something wrong?" Nyota asks her technician. He has been staring at the floor as she makes a half-hearted attempt at a puzzle.

"Huh?" the technician says, looking up at her, "You are finished?"

"Um," Nyota mutters, pushing the puzzle towards him. Her spatial abilities are somewhat lacking. There are several pieces she became frustrated with which are broken from mishandling and it is barely half done but the technician glances at it and nods vigorously.

"That's good," the technician says.

"Is it?" Nyota says. She leans forward, "Is there something bothering you?"

The technician shakes his head, "Don't worry about it," he forces a smile at her, "It's nothing worth worrying about."

The moment the words pass his lips, there is a commotion outside the door. The technician jumps to his feet to open the door. Around him, in the hallway, she can see two uniformed police officers leading a calm Dr. Kimathi.

"Bibi!" the technician calls.

"It's alright," Dr. Kimathi says, holding up her hand so he can see she is not wearing handcuffs. She sees Nyota behind the technician and nods at her, "Everything will be fine."

The technician watches as Dr. Kimathi walks away. He sit down with Nyota as she tries the puzzle again, his eyes not quite focusing on her, and then excuses both of them several minutes early.

Later, when Nyota is wandering the halls, she hears a news broadcaster through an open door, " - _arrested earlier based on charges of violating the Full Death Law_ ," Nyota has time to glance through the door and see Dr. Kimathi on the screen at a press conference. Then one of the staff in the room, one of the many watching the screen, notices her and closes the door.


End file.
